


hiraeth

by Ghostbursoot



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst, Blood, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Family Dynamics, Fire, Fuck word limits all my homies hate word limits, George really is not found, Injury, Magic, Mentions of Death, Mentions of genocide, Minor Character Death, Minstrel!Wilbur, Niki Nihachu is a badass, Prince!Ranboo, Queen!Nikki, Villain!Dream, Wilbur-centric, aaaaaaaaa, it's my comfort fic and I get to choose the protagonist, moral of the story I really like medieval aus, not like the chocolate tho, this is what happens when we don't get 4/4 SBI content, this was loosely inspired by that one Mikky ekko song, why? because i said so, you know the one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostbursoot/pseuds/Ghostbursoot
Summary: hiraeth(N.) A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.Wilbur Soot was four years old when Doomsday happened, when everything decided to crumble around him through no fault of his own. Wilbur Soot was four years old when he lost everything he ever knew with no ability to return to it ever again.And lord forgive that, after all that, he could choose to live peacefully again. The choice really would never be his.
Kudos: 12





	hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This fic will span across several chapters. Whilst I don't have an exact number ( I think so far I'm leaning to around 13 chapters but I'm not entirely sure), I do know how exactly this fic will go and have everything planned out. I'm super excited to be writing this so I hope you enjoy!

**_Prologue_ **

Wilbur soot was four years old when Doomsday happened.

It had been a day like any other. He knew it to be true as it held that kind of peaceful monotony one felt when experiencing the same thing yet still doing something different enough to feel satisfied with the day's deeds - or as satisfied as a four year old toddling in the lush forests in the outskirts of town could get. It had been ordinary and ordinary had been just fine.

Briar's Glenn was a beautiful town by the coast, one that was resting comfortably on a slanted space of land, right before the sheer drop that led to rocky coves and sun-kissed, turquoise waves that were crowned with soft sea foam. The air was whipped with sea salt that dissolved on the tongue, sky a vibrant and cheerful blue as it transported an autumn breeze up north. The clouds were huddled together in a lazy fashion, more reminiscent of the fragments of summer than the actual season of fall. The town itself contained a perfect balance of meticulous yet magnificent stone architecture as well as humble and charming brick cottages - greenery vibrant and thriving everywhere. The breeze carried an orchestra of sounds - choruses of seagulls whistled in the background accompanied by dancing tree leaves and the hustle and bustle of every day life. 

It was an independent place too, one of the few free from the control of any kingdom or empire.

The town was famously known for its potters and fishermen, producing the finest crab stock in Eden alongside the most artistic of plates and antiquities to put said food upon. However, despite the main trade being a key feature to the village, it wasn't fully the core. Briar's Glenn, to those who had heard tales from imprinted leather or spoken in candlelight, was known to house the finest magical casters in all of the country. Sorcerers, healers, shape shifters; if it was written down somewhere in a book, they would be residing within the calm confines of Glenn. Many would adjourn just to study their endless wisdom, others going to learn and grow their own magical capabilities in hopes to make some name of themselves. They were peaceful and friendly people, content on sharing their gifts with the world as nothing but an act of kindness and good spirits. Best of all, they were a community. Everyone that lived in the area was deemed as close as family. It wasn't exactly a big place but it was never lonely either.

Wilbur had been exploring the forest for the past few hours now - the afternoon was growing upon him as he vaguely recalled being taught to read the sun and how, currently, it was crawling up painfully slowly to the centre of the sky. He could just about see the rays filter through a series of emerald and yellowing leaves - staring for too long and ending up recoiling back as patches of light temporarily pricked into his retinas. He rubbed his eyes, forgetting about them watering and slightly stinging completely as his young mind shifted quickly in attention to playing again. Afternoon time meant soon he would have to go inside and eat so he knew he had better make the most out of his freedom before then.

The forests had always been his favourite part about home, the trees felt like friends constantly watching over him and giving him shade. He loved to watch the wildlife frolic so undisturbed, occasionally gaping in awe as a squirrel would dart up a tree. Sometimes, if he had enough time, he would venture further into the leafy grove until he hit the river, a twisting and turning pathway of water based on a series of earthy pebbles and smooth slate. It was always fun to watch how the moss curled over the top of tree roots and rocks right on the river banks - how it looked so alive yet so much like a plant. It was always fun to sometimes hop across the shallower parts, where beige slate would protrude above the calm trickle of water, allowing him to cross without getting wet. The river itself was quite shallow in the forest, probably only reaching just below his ankles, however - further upstream and morphed into the hill, there was a glistening waterfall surrounded by a guard of thick yet dew ridden trees. He had only been there a few times with his father for picnics and they were fond memories to him.

But Wilbur's favourite part about his favourite place was the sounds. They were always music to him; from the rushing noises of a waterfall to the greetings of smaller, dainty birds to the sound of fresh leaves crunching underneath his feet. It was as if he was in the audience, watching nature compose its finest piece. 

He had decided to stay fairly close to the town today, despite it being the middle of November, it was surprisingly warm and so he often found himself longing to run back and beg for something cool to drink but resisted the urge. Going inside meant less playtime, he would always remind himself, and he had a lot of forest he wanted to explore before he truly felt content with going back for the day. The brunette found himself jumping from the thick tree roots that peered lazily from the depths of the earth, treating them as if they were stepping stones and the ground was a foreign substance he couldn't touch. Hopping onto a particularly arched root that was a good way above the floor, the child rested a hand against the thick bark of the tree, just light enough so that the rough surface didn't end up giving him splinters. He looked around, panting breathlessly with joyfully crinkled eyes and a giggle in his throat, somewhat bewildered thanks to that curious, child-like energy, as he scouted out for the next most interesting thing that caught his attention.

He leaned forward, just about catching sight of an animal prancing in the distance. His breath was stifled and his eyes grew wide with intrigue. A small gasp escaped from his mouth, body leaning forward further and further to catch a better glance of the mystery creature, further further further until.... his foot slipped and Wilbur went tumbling off the root and into a pile of autumn's tears below. The creature raised its head and darted off, leaving him alone.

There was silence in the forest.

Suddenly, he emerged from the leaves, smile on his face and laughing uncontrollably. Most of the leaves were crisp with age, creating a delightful sound as he shuffled around in them as if he was swimming. Many of them were beautiful shades of orange and yellow, a stark contrast to the leaves up above. As he got himself up, he quickly heaved an armful of the leaves with him, then shooting up to his feet only to throw them with a little bounce in his step and continue laughing happily. They floated on the air for only a few seconds before softly gliding back to the ground and coming to a rest, crackling on the breeze.

Many were attached to his hair and clothes, some of them being soaked with rain from the previous days and feeling smooth under his small fingers as he plied them off of him. The brunette could only note happily that some of them matched the colour of his yellow sweater perfectly and that, maybe, these leaves were clothes to magical creatures of some sorts. After all, he had heard the tales of that which called forests their homes.

He started to clamber back onto the root system again, wanting nothing more than to jump into the pile of leaves until his heart was content.

"Wil! Lunch time!" 

Wilbur groaned, his posture slouching and a pout making its way onto his face. No matter how far he travelled into nature, Phil's voice always had a way of finding him as if his father had been right beside him, holding his hand. Sometimes, that was a blessing. He had gotten lost once in the forest, it was one of his first times venturing further and into newer territory without Phil. He would have sat and cried by the bark of a wise oak tree if it hadn't been for his father's soothing voice assuring him everything was alright until he was actually there right beside him. Other times, like now when he clearly wanted to stay outside, it was a curse. Phil clearly knew of this mystical ability he had and so it was hard to pretend that he had never been heard.

Sullenly stepping down, Wilbur vowed that he would come back tomorrow, perhaps when more leaves had gathered and made a better pile, and continue his fun. Until then, lunch was on the line, and he hurried out from the canopy of forestry and onto cobbled stone pathways - through narrow streets and under archways, often waving in an exaggerated fashion at neighbors who greeted him.

Home was his second favourite place in the whole world.

He and his father lived in a small cottage also on the edge of town, in fact he could follow the forest along until it came to a clearing and broke into lush overgrown fields, swaying delicately through the sunlight. The cottage itself backed onto the fields, having a small front garden filled with an array of beautiful flowers and one large birch tree - a small swing hanging lazily from one branch by two pieces of rope. The walls of the building were painted white with a beige doorway, all windows being a circular shape and the roof was a brick coloured slate. In the summer, it was the perfect place to come outside and play whilst, in the winter, was cozy and warm inside.

Phil was outside, tending to some of the plants in his garden that had useful properties - such as aloe and rosemary. His sleeves on his green coat were rolled up to prevent any dirt getting on them and his long blonde hair that normally tumbled over his shoulders had been pinned back into a neat bun. His hydrangea blue eyes lit up when hearing the sound of Wilbur's quick footsteps, standing to attention as his son soon came running through the wooden front gate, closing it carefully behind him so it didn't slam.

"You've got leaves all in your hair," the older laughed softly, crouching down so he was eye level with the younger and carefully picking out the rest of the remains of Wilbur's adventures, "Your braid has come undone as well. How did you manage that?"

Braids were an unspoken tradition in the family - although Wilbur didn't exactly understand the meaning behind it. Phil said it connected them, having one himself held together by an emerald jewel clasp. Last the brunette checked, the only way to connect strands of hair was by tying them together. And whilst Phil's hair was long, Wilbur's was short, only being thick enough to make braiding a possibility.

"Fell over," he shrugged, "saw a deer". Phil chuckled softly, standing up with such grace and ease as if age never affected him, before reaching out and lovingly ruffling Will's hair. An adoring smile never left his face.

"I'll redo your braid later, for now, lunch is ready".

"What's for lunch?"

"Well it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you now, mate, would it?"

Inside, on the west wing of the entrance hallway, was the kitchen and dining room. It wasn't fairly big, having a spruce wood table in a square shape pushed up against a peach coloured wall, underneath a painting of a sunset-kissed sky. Opposite that wall were the main worktops of the kitchen and the counters, perched comfortably just underneath the window that viewed the front garden in its glory. The kitchen contained all the necessities - a furnace, a spice rack, a cauldron, everything that could possibly be needed.

Phil had put on the furnace earlier, there was no mistaking the soothing smell of log fire intermingling with the general smell of herbs and fresh linen.

Wilbur rushed to the table, a plate resting on the surface waiting for him as he hopped onto the chair, the wooden floor slightly creaking at the jolt in movement. His lunch was nothing too complex - just sandwiches cut into triangles alongside a ripe banana that Phil had probably got from the local traders that brought their donkey drawn carts of goods into the plaza of the village - but it was enough to bring a smile to his face.

Phil on the other hand, walked over to the basin under the window, dipping his hands in and washing them methodically and calmly. Once drying them, he unpinned his hair, allowing it to cascade down his shoulders in its waterfall-like splendour. Will had always wondered if such an amount of hair would get in the way; he always saw Phil doing something, the man was not one to sit still, and having long hair when leading such an active life always seemed impractical.

The older came to pull out a chair, a ceramic bowl in his hands with a warm, frothing liquid inside. 

Wilbur temporarily stopped taking small bites from his sandwich, tilting his head curiously at the delicacy that produced that wonderful smell.

"What's that?" He asked with a tilt of his head.

"Mutton stew, there were some new traders in town today, some from Lothorien, they brought a lot of new meats".

"What's it taste like?" 

Phil brought a spoon into the liquid, his son watching as it disrupted the calm surface and sent ripples bouncing to the sides. Taking a spoonful, he held it close to his lips and softly blew, the now obvious steam rising from it starting to dissipate.

"Here, try some," he prompted, bringing the spoon over to Wilbur accompanied by a tentative hand underneath to prevent any spills. Wilbur's doe eyes flickered from his father to the spoon in front of him before trying the stew given.

His face scrunched up in disappointment when the scent did not match the bland taste that hit his tongue. Phil laughed.

"You don't like it mate?"

"Nah".

The two ate lunch in peaceful harmony, either one occasionally interjecting with comments about their day. Phil would tell intriguing stories of his interactions with people in town, alongside news from other towns and kingdoms. Wilbur would happily oblige to talk about the state of the forest and the many adventures he had partaken in over the course of a few hours. Phil would never stop listening with an amused glint in his eye and interest clear in all his features whilst Wilbur would listen to each tale and scenario with an awestruck expression.

Just as Wilbur had finished his fruit and Phil drying his bowl after washing it at the basin before putting out the fire underneath the cauldron, a sharp and hurried knock echoed through the entire house.

Both of them looked up, Wilbur wiping the crumbs from his food off his face with his sleeve whilst Philza put what he was holding down - the cotton cloth cradling the bowl - and went to greet whoever had adjourned to visit them.

Phil often got many visitors. Sometimes, when he thought Wilbur was tucked away and sleeping, those visitors would stay in the house for hours, both of them having hushed conversations.

Once the lock on the door was opened, whoever had been waiting outside flung it open with an extreme amount of force.

Wilbur couldn't see who was at the door, but he knew something was wrong from the moment he heard quick and high pitched ramblings, followed by Phil soothing them quietly and starting to speak in that secretive silent voice of his.

It didn't stop him eavesdropping.

"Guards? What do they want?"

"I don't know I don't know for sure but-"

"-and the council? What have they said? They wouldn't stand for this like many of us".

"They didn't like it and so the message was sent and orders have been given-"

"Where are the guards from?"

"They're from ....... and they've brought-"

"- alright, I understand, I'll be with you in a few seconds".

The door closed and Wilbur quickly shot his gaze at his plate as if he had never been listening.

Phil didn't come back into the kitchen, however, instead his footsteps were heard ascending the stairs to the bedrooms. Then it was replaced by rustling and rooting around. When the older came back to the ground floor with haste, Wilbur stood at the kitchen doorway with an innocent frown.

He didn't fail to notice that, in one hand, Philza held a purple-black sword, one that reminded him of the depths of a void but shined far too glossy to be so. In fact he could see it glow a mixture of pink and blue, an image he could only pair with the waves of an ocean. 

Yet he knew it wasn't meant to be a calming sight.

It screamed danger.

"Dad?" He asked, "what's going on?"

"It's just a dispute by the borders," Phil assured, his hardened face containing a furrowed brow and cautious glances melting in an instant at seeing his son's unsure demeanor, "Some guards are looking for someone and asking if they're here. Getting a bit too big for their boots mate, nothing to worry about".

"You aren't going to fight them, are you?"

"Oh no, no this?" Phil showed off his sword, "it's just in case they try anything. It's just a misunderstanding. Nothing to fight over. Now, I'll be gone for an hour or two, so I need you to stay inside and get yourself washed. You've still got dirt in your hair after all. I promise I'll plait your hair when I get back. If anybody knocks, don't answer". And with that, Phil crouched down, eye level yet again but refusing to look him in the eyes, and gave him a kiss on the forehead before leaving.

As the door swung open and closed, Wilbur could feel that the winds had turned bitter so he tugged his sleeves further over his hands. The winds were howling at him, yelling at him. What they were trying to tell him, he couldn't say.

But Dad was always right. Everything was ok.

And so, he clambered up the stairs and got himself washed in the bathroom - having done so enough times due to his forest trips. He washed his hair, scrubbed it real clean so Phil could always comment on how much he liked his hair and how easy it was to braid. He got himself changed into a simple white cotton sweatshirt, knowing that this new situation that had arose meant he wouldn't be able to try and beg his way into going back outside for today. He sat patiently in his room, flicking through picture books to pass the time until Phil came back.

One hour passed.

He couldn't sit still and he moved downstairs, opting to sit at the bottom two stairs and wait. 

His body was weary and his eyes were sleepy, he had really tired himself out today. Not that he was complaining.

Another hour passed.

He was fast asleep by then, leaning against the wall with feet brought up and against the bottom of the banister, allowing him to somewhat oddly lay on the second step.

Three hours.

Four hours.

The sky outside had turned over from its jovial self to a tranquil and soft night, clouds painted in the sky alongside the faded but growing moon.

He could hear the sounds of a fire crackling along with the familiar scent of a log fire, those senses stirring him awake.

Wilbur was drowsy, moving his head slowly and eyes blinking whilst squinted as he yawned. A fire meant Phil was home. Everything was okay after all, he was right, he was always right.

He proceeded into the kitchen, continuing to rub sleep from him eyes lazily.

The brunette paused and frowned.

The kitchen was empty, no fire was on.

So where......?

There was a scream.

Then silence.

Then more screams were accompanied with more sounds of fire crackling. He was faintly aware that the scent he had enjoyed before was now becoming stronger, toxic, suffocating. The more he awoke, the more he realised that there was the sound of horses outside too, rapidly galloping around. The screams fell in line with them.

Where was Phil, where was _his dad_?

What did he do? What should he do?

Why were there screams, why could he see growing embers get coughed into the night sky, trying to pretend to be devilish stars?

Where was his dad?

In an instant, panic plunged through Wilbur's very core. There was a fire outside, he knew that much, so it had to be safe inside. He **HAD** to stay inside. Inside was certain, inside was safe and he couldn't leave under any circumstances. Phil had told him he would come back. That everything would be ok. Where was Phil? **WHERE WAS HIS DAD?**

Wilbur trembled, breathing quickening as the emotion started to build up alongside the fear.

There was an explosion, it was fairly close, so close in fact that it shook the house and shoved a ringing sound into his ears. 

He flinched, bursting into tears and running upstairs into his room as he cried, not loud enough to drown out the screams and several more explosions that followed.

Safe place, safe place, where would he be safe?

There was a wardrobe in the corner of his bedroom. Sometimes Phil would put blankets in there where he could sit and hide in. It was for the purpose of hide and seek, his usual spot, and often became the place he fell asleep for naps in.

Phil would find him there.

Scurrying inside, almost falling several times due to his tears and shakes, he closed the door quickly and huddled up in a corner among the blankets.

He couldn't stop crying.

He was so scared.

Where was Phil?

Wilbur pulled a blanket over him, he felt cold, he felt like he was drowning.

It didn't drown the explosions and screams out.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten.

Maybe when he opened his eyes, Phil would find him.

* * *

Wilbur opened his eyes slowly. His face was sticky from crying and his hair was a mess, much akin to when Phil would wake him up softly first thing in the morning.

Phil.

Carefully, he pushed open the wooden wardrobe door and dragged his sluggish body out, keeping a blanket around him.

The air was still thick with smoke, everywhere he looked having a foggy complexion. He couldn't hear any fire or explosions or screaming. Maybe it had stopped, maybe he was safe.

Timidly, the child shuffled over to the stairs, stopping dead and turning pale at the sight before him.

The front door had been singed, half hanging off the frame. Most of the walls downstairs were stained with a spray of black soot and ash and the smell of smoke was stronger - in fact, there were pieces of clumped ash and embers still swaying on the air and clinging to the surroundings.

"Dad?" Wilbur called out, voice small and shaky. He took a few steps downstairs, eyes following the destruction everywhere it went.

"Dad?" He hit the bottom step, shoes treading in the ashes as if it were grains of sand at the beach. The kitchen was completely destroyed, the front having burnt down and the cauldron spilt over. The painting above the table was hanging by one corner, most of it charred and curling at one corner.

"Dad, are you here?" Out the front door he ventured, the fog thicker and causing him to cough. The tree had lost its leaves and his swing was on the floor, just a small plank of wood. The flowers were either decayed or painted in black, the colour once blooming from them no more. Tears started to well up again in his eyes. The familiar fear of last night started to settle in again but without the panicky adrenaline of running for your life.

"D-dad? Please where are you?" Sobbing as he walked down the street, Wilbur looked for something, _anything_ , that could help him. Alongside buildings he recognised that had surrounded him most of his life being completely destroyed (some were lucky enough to still stand whilst others were graves of wooden beams and debris), signs of life were absent.

"Dad?"

He couldn't walk anymore. He couldn't bring himself to take another step forward as the years irritated his skin even more, "you promised to braid my hair dad. Where... Where...."

There was only silence left to answer him. He was alone.

He could just about see the plaza in the distance, pulling his rooted feet from the ground to walk there and sit at the foot of the tree in the centre. It was the magnum opus of their town, a sign of knowledge, community and life.

Most of it had burnt down.

Phil had been right about traders visiting, there were an array of carts scattered everywhere with their contents spilled out on the floor as if they too had been massacred.

Where had everyone gone?

People didn't just disappear right?

He hadn't done anything wrong had he?

Did he do something wrong?

Is that why his dad didn't come back?

A fresh wave of tears passed the threshold and the flood gates opened yet again, Wilbur found that he was now holding himself as he cried. He cried loud enough in hopes that Phil would hear like he always did and his voice would reach him like when he was lost in the forest.

He wanted his dad to hug him. He wanted his dad to hold his hand.

Hoofbeats could be heard in the distance, they were slow and methodical, a contrast to the chaos he remembered from last night.

Wilbur didn't notice.

"Oh my lord".

A soft, feminine voice pricked up his ears and yet, the relief that should have flooded him never came. It was help. _It wasn't his father_.

A woman rushed over in a dark plum dress, blonde hair tame and wavy with beautiful black streaks in. When his eyes weren't blurred with water, he could see such concern and worry etched into the creases of her tired face, blue orbs matching the emotion. She had elf like ears and dark rose tinted cheeks. He didn't think he had ever seen her before.

"Horace, quickly, there's a child". She hurriedly called over before turning back to him and crouching down as a white horse started to appear in the background. "Hey, hey it's alright. You're safe little one. It's ok. Where is your family?"

Wilbur sniffled and burst into tears again.

He didn't see the look exchanged between the man and the woman.

He didn't protest when he felt himself get picked up in warm and loving arms and hoisted onto a horse.

He could only watch with cries as, soon enough, they travelled out from Briar's Glenn with him alone, watching as the once beautiful town scenery was left behind, now a smoking crater.

Wilbur soot was four years old when he lost everything he ever knew.

And he had never gone back.


End file.
